Part 2 — THE WIFE’S LAST GIFT.

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BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.

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In the late Hungarian struggle, Count Batthyany was taken prisoner by the Austrians. He was sentenced to be hung, and his wife sent him a dagger, that, by taking his own life, he might escape the ignominy of such a death.

I send a precious gift to thee,

My own, my honored love—

A gift that well I know thou’lt prize,

All gifts of earth above.

’Tis meet and right that it should be

The rarest—’tis the last!

Alas! how o’er me rushes now

The memory of the past!

Do you remember, love, the time

When first within mine ear

Thy deep voice breathed the earnest words

My soul rejoiced to hear?

I gave thee then my heart’s first love,

Its wealth of tenderness;

But ah! the gift I send thee now

Hath greater power to bless.

And when, with claspéd hands, we stood

Before the altar-stone,

And tremblingly I vowed to be

Forever thine alone;

Then by the flushing of thy cheek,

And by thy kindling eye—

By the low tones that thrilled my heart,

And by thy bearing high—

I knew, I knew the little hand

So fondly pressed in thine,

Not all the treasures of a world

Would tempt thee to resign.

But, love, upon Affection’s shrine

I lay an offering now,

Can weave a spell more potent far

Than even wifely vow!

Now lift it from the sheltering folds

That hide it from thy sight—

Nay, dearest, start not to behold

This dagger sharp and bright!

Look thou upon it tranquilly—

Without one hurried breath—

’Tis the last token of a love

That cannot yield to death.

Is’t not a precious gift, beloved?—

’Twill break thy heavy chain;

And prison-bolts, and dungeon-walls,

Shall bar thy way in vain!

The felon’s doom thou need’st not fear,

This talisman is thine:

“Freedom” and “Honor” on the blade—

In glowing letters shine!

Oh! would that I might kneel, mine own,

By thy dear side once more,

And hold thy head upon my breast

Till life’s last pang were o’er!

I would not shrink nor falter,

When I saw thy life-blood flow;

But deathless love should give me strength

Calmly to let thee go!

It may not be! A shadow lies

Darkly upon our way;

I may not hear thy last, low sigh,

Nor o’er thy still form pray.

Oh, God of love, and might, and power!

Shall blood be shed in vain?—

Upon our mountains and our vales

It hath been poured like rain;

Our streams are darkened by its flow—

It taints the very air;

What marvel if our spirits sink

In anguish and despair?

Look Thou upon us! Thou, whose word

Can set the prisoner free!—

So shall the tyrant’s sword no more

Hang over Hungary!